


Awake

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Extra Treat, M/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 04:57:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Everything is quiet, empty, still. Weightless. The way it’s been for longer now than Peter can remember.Then, chaos.Peter was awake for those five missing years after the snap. Awake, and alone in the darkness.





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LearnedFoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/gifts).



> Set post-IW, ignores a whole bunch of what happens in Endgame because why not.

Peter doesn’t come back into the world the same way he’d left it - slowly, piece by aching piece. He comes back all at once, like a rubberband snapping back to its original shape after being stretched to the very limit.

Everything is quiet, empty, still. Weightless. The way it’s been for longer now than Peter can remember.

Then, chaos.

He can taste dust in the air, feel gravity anchoring him to the Earth - wait no, not to Earth. Everything is far too red for that.

Titan.

The world explodes back into existence around him, a kaleidoscope of color and sound, if something like kaleidoscopes existed for sound, this is what it would feel like to stick your head inside one, Peter thinks, wildly.

It would sound like yelling, cheering, crying in relief. It would sound like boots scuffing against dirt at the exact same volume as a spaceship hovering in the atmosphere over their heads, as the crackle of static coming in over someone’s earpiece, as the soft thud of tears hitting dry earth.

Peter stumbles forward, falling to his knees, gasping for air.

“Take it easy, kid, it’s okay. It’s okay,” Mr. Stark is saying.

Peter can feel the metal hand of Mr. Stark’s suit settle against his back as he pitches forward, dry heaving.

“What - what happened?” he rasps out.

“Oh the usual. I invented time travel, defeated Thanos, saved the day. Typical Thursday. Seriously, are you okay, kid? You look kind of ...not good.”

 _Not good_ must be an understatement. Peter is pretty sure the hand on his back is the only thing keeping him from tearing back apart into individual molecules, and even that is maddening, in its own way. He desperately wants more of it, but that small point of contact is already almost too much.

He can feel the shifting mechanisms of each individual joint of the hand, the warmth transferred through the metal from Mr. Stark’s skin, and the gentle humming of the arc reactor powering the suit underneath it all. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, trying to focus everything on just that one spot.

“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere,” Mr. Stark says, shifting one hand down to grasp his shoulder as if to pull him up into a hug.

“Don’t - !” Peter begs, and Mr. Stark freezes in place.

“Okay, okay I won’t. Talk to me kid, what’s going on?”

“I’m fine, I’m good. I just need a minute.”

Peter isn’t sure how long they stay like that, crouched together on the ground in silence, but it feels like a long time before he’s able to open his eyes without immediately feeling like he’s going to throw up.

He frowns.

“What’s all that gray stuff in your hair?”

Mr. Stark blinks at him. His face does something complicated before settling on what Peter guesses (or hopes) is fond disbelief. “It’s gray hair. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Listen, there’s some stuff we should probably talk about, before we jump on a spaceship and fly you back home to your Aunt.”

“Oh man, May’s gonna be so pissed.”

“Yeah, about that. I was told in no uncertain terms that if this whole thing actually worked and we got you back, I was to immediately inform you that we’re both grounded until you’re at least 35.”

Peter almost laughs, half-hysterical. “What... can she do that?”

“I wasn’t really in a position to argue with her at the time.”

“Hold on, when did you talk to Aunt May?”

“That’s… one of the things we should talk about. You wanna sit down? Why don’t you sit down, pull up a nice comfy piece of alien planet and take a load off. It’s not every day you come back from the dead.”

“Mr. Stark?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just gonna say it. It’s been five years, kid. You’ve been gone for five years.”

“Five years,” Peter repeats back, tonelessly.

“I know. It’s a lot to wrap your head around. Probably felt like nothing at all, or you know, I don’t really want to get into a discussion about the afterlife or the nature of the human soul right now, that stuff’s all a little too hand-wavey for me, but - ”

Mr. Stark is still talking, but Peter can’t follow the words. _Five years_ is still clanging  around in his head.

_Probably felt like nothing at all..._

It hadn’t felt like nothing at all though. It hadn’t felt like five years, either.

It had felt like five lifetimes. FIve hundred years, five thousand - to be honest, Peter had stopped counting the seconds and minutes and hours when he realized he’d been playing tricks on himself with the numbers, just for something to do.

He’s having trouble breathing.

One of Mr. Stark’s gloved hands settles on his chest, the other on his back. He’s still talking, telling Peter to _breathe, kid, in and out, that’s it, keep breathing_.

“Hey, hey, focus up here,” he says.

His hands have drifted up to either side of Peter’s face. Peter blinks, watches as duplicates of Mr. Stark’s face drift across his field of vision. Everything’s gone kaleidoscope-y again.

“Your Aunt’s waiting for you, okay? I’m gonna get you home, like I promised her I would. Got it?”

Peter nods. It still feels like he’s sucking air through a straw, but at least the straw isn’t getting any smaller. He can deal with this.

Mr. Stark pulls him forward against his chest, arms wrapped around his back. Peter can feel the heat of Mr. Stark’s skin where his forehead is pressed against the man’s neck. He can smell metal and machine oil and Mr. Stark’s aftershave and - _that can’t be Axe, can it?_ No, he’s just going nuts. Senses firing on all cylinders. Maybe this is what it feels like to go crazy.

Maybe this is what it’s like when the rubberband won’t stretch any further, and it breaks.

He doesn’t remember passing out.

 

*

 

Coming to a second time is a little easier than the first, although not by much.

Partially because this time he’s braced for the onslaught of sight and smell and sound, and partially because - he reaches up with one hand to confirm - his mask is back in place, dulling his senses.

“Pete, you with us?” Mr. Stark asks.

Peter nods. His mouth feels dry. Figures. It’s been five years since he’s had a drink of water, he thinks, not a bit little hysterically.

“I don’t know if this is a lot to ask or not, but I’m going to throw it out there anyway -  can you give me some warning if that’s going to happen again? You’ve already died in my arms one time too many for me to cope well with you zonking out like that.”

Peter manages to work enough moisture into his throat to get out, “- sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. Just don’t do it again. Please. If you can help it.” Mr. Stark pauses for a moment, long enough that Peter notices he’s still slumped against the man’s chest.

“So, sensory overload?” Mr. Stark asks, craning his neck to look down at Peter.

“Yeah. It was - ” Peter trails off, not sure how much he can explain. “It didn’t feel like five years. It felt like a lot longer.”

“I gathered as much. Some of other other resurrectees faired a little better with the re-entry thing.”

Peter glances over to find Mr. Starlord on his knees. The bug lady is laying on the ground, sobbing, with the big blue guy crouched over her, hands held out like he’s not sure what to do with them. There are other people milling around too, but Peter has to shut his eyes before he gets overloaded again.

Even with the mask to dull his senses, everything is just on the edge of too loud, too busy. Too much input. Peter isn’t used to having to sort out and prioritize so many different things happening all at once.

Not when for so long it had just been him, alone with his thoughts.

“We should probably get moving though. Think you can you stand?” Mr. Stark asks.

He probably could. He feels clumsy and wrong-footed, but he could, he thinks.

He shakes his head.

“That’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Mr. Stark stands for the both of them, pulling Peter up into his arms. Peter has to swallow hard against the wave of dizziness that comes over him. He shuts his eyes and presses his forehead against the hard nanite chestplate of Mr. Stark’s suit.

They step onto what Peter assumes is a ship, based on the way the sound closes in around him, Mr. Stark’s heavy footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. His stomach does a weird swooping thing when Mr. Stark sits down, still holding him close.

“Is he alright?” someone asks. Peter only vaguely recognizes the voice.

“He’ll be fine.”

Peter can feel the reverberations against his skin as Mr. Stark talks, since his head is tucked up against Mr. Stark’s neck. It sends a not-unwelcome shiver down his spine.

“Kid,” Mr. Stark says, voice pitched low, his face tipped down so his mouth is right by Peter’s ear. “I’m going to deactivate my suit, okay? It’s gonna be a long flight, and I think it might be a little more comfortable for both of us.”

Peter doesn’t actually know if it’s okay or not. The hard shell of the suit is like a touchstone, but then again the warmth of Mr. Stark’s neck feels so, so good where it’s pressed against Peter’s head. He nods, wanting and needing more of that.

There’s some shifting around underneath him, and an agonizing moment where Peter is pulled away from Mr. Stark’s chest so he can tap the chestpiece. But then a moment later Peter feels himself settling against Mr. Stark thighs, his arms pulling Peter back into the warmth of his chest.

It takes a long time for Peter to realize he’s been crying.

He only notices because he can feel the fabric of Mr. Starks shirt growing damp against his cheek. Mr. Stark doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move except to trace a hand up Peter’s back to comb through his hair.

Peter can’t quite bring himself to feel ashamed of the tears, or the way he can’t stop clinging to Mr. Stark’s shoulders like a limpet. Five years was a long time to spend alone in all that emptiness. He figures he’s owed this, for holding out this long, making it this far without breaking.

He figures Mr. Stark will probably understand.

“Flight’s gonna take a few hours,” Mr. Stark says.

“Good.”

 


End file.
